The journey to Sam's apartment was excruciating; Madison was convinced that both she and Ethan were running on sheer adrenaline and misery. She couldn't be bothered to talk any more, and Ethan, barely upright, appeared to be far past listening, though there were moments where she thought she heard him faintly attempt to gasp words. They shivered together, increasingly soaked, through the back alleys, stumbling over scattered trash bags, and most of the stumble there was a blur of pain and wet. Seeing the front door to Sam's apartment building made her feel like there should be an angel choir accompanying it. As a special hallelujah, when she kicked at the front door, his cheap landlord still hadn't managed to replace the lock, so they bypassed the buzzer entirely. They barely slowed down on their tortuous course into the building.
Madison hit the elevator call button with all the force she could muster, and it cranked down at a respectable speed. Just a few floors . . . Losing their momentum meant that Ethan was starting to fade badly again, and he began to wobble dangerously. Madison's arms were trembling with the increasing, prolonged tension of holding him up. It was a short struggle on to the elevator, where Madison braced him awkwardly against the wall. They only had to make it to the third floor, and they'd be almost to the packrat's nest that Sam had slowly encrusted around himself over the years. Madison had never wanted to see it more badly, and when the elevator doors opened on the dim hallway, she felt a new rush of energy. They were only a few feet from Sam's door when she simultaneously heard a sigh and felt Ethan's body go entirely limp as he lost consciousness. She helped him crumple slowly into and slide down the wall – too exhausted to break his fall by herself – and let him lie prone as she once again checked to see if she'd killed him. Not yet, apparently; he was still breathing, but his pulse was fast and light, and he fairly radiated heat. And I think we're both running out of times where god says, "Okay, I'll let this one more slide."
She heaved herself to her feet and groped her way along the wall to Sam's door, where she tried to knock quietly but knew she was pounding, instead. Sam, bless his weird little heart, answered almost immediately – and only opened the door two inches, leaving the chain on.
"Madison?" he squinted out at her. With his stocky build and graying hair, he looked like a badger peering out of its hole.
"Yeah, Sam, me," she panted.
"For only coming from 40th and Ball, you sure took – "
"I need your help in the hall, Sam, he's fainted." Please let him already have cleared off the sofa.
Sam's eyes widened, but this was enough for him to close the door, and Madison could hear him taking off the chain before re-opening it and peering into the semi-darkness. "Wow, you weren't kidding," he said, and the two of them moved towards Ethan, Madison looking nervously up and down the hallway to see if Sam had any neighbors poking their heads out to investigate the noise.
"Boy, he is soaking wet," said Sam, kneeling down beside Ethan, "I guess I can take his shoulders, and you can get . . . Mad, I think this guy's really sick. Are you sure we shouldn't call an ambulance?"
"No, Sam, please, let's just get him inside," she replied, starting to work her hands under Ethan's knees.
"In fact," Sam leaned closer in the dim light, "I don't think he's just sick, he looks hurt. This looks like blood, here."
"Sam!"
He glared at her, but let the desperate note in her voice bully him into hoisting Ethan by the shoulders. The two of them managed to carry in Ethan's dead weight, tripping past the stacks of newspapers and VHS tapes littering the interior hallway of Sam's apartment. They set the unconscious Ethan on the sofa, feet raised, without too much jostling.
Once he was safely there, Madison immediately set to work unfastening Ethan's coat to investigate the damage, while Sam furiously locked the front door behind her.
"Sam, do you have first-aid supplies?" She gently pulled Ethan's blood-smeared hand free from its makeshift cocoon under his clothing, and laid it on the hideous paisley sheet draping the sofa.
"Goddammit, Madison, what the hell's wrong with him? Has he been shot? Is he a criminal? Who is this guy?"
"Believe me, it is really important that he not go to the hospital. I am going to need some bandages and things here in a minute, Sam."
"Well, I've got some band-aids, but I'm not exactly set up for this, you know? This is not okay, Madison, for you to do this. Christ, he smells like a bar that someone set on fire." He was storming to the sofa now, and stopped in shock: "I mean, JESUS, is that all blood?"
Madison was already wondering the same thing, thinking incoherently, Oh my god, maybe he did get shot, someone said stop or I'll shoot and we didn't stop, I didn't hear a shot but I was sort of panicking, and maybe Ethan didn't feel it or didn't mention it because he's an idiot or something – She'd gotten Ethan's coat open and his shirts pushed up, and his chest bandages were half-soaked with red, nothing like they'd looked after the last time she'd seen them. She hurriedly began yanking off all of his top layers, not trying to be gentle; it was pretty clear Ethan wasn't waking up any time soon. And he feels so hot, too. She ran her hands on and around his bandages, only vaguely aware that Sam was working himself into a fit in the background.
"What the fuck is going on? Did anyone see you come in? Answer me! That does it, Madison, I am calling the cops!"
"No, please don't, Sam, look, it's okay, look," she said, genuinely relieved. It's bad, but it's not that bad. "See, he hurt himself before, he burned himself, so he had the bandages on. And then a little bit ago, he got his finger cut off – "
"Are you fucking kidding me, Mad? Oh, shit, look at his fucking hand!"
" – he just lost his finger, and I didn't bandage it quite right and he had it stuck in his shirt. See," she gently pulled back the bandages a little, "It's just smeared all over the top layer. I need to rebandage it, that's all. And we've just come through the rain, so everything is completely soaked. It's fine, it looks worse because it's wet." She tried not to look at the raw end of the finger itself, which she must have reopened with her abuse and which was now clearly openly seeping. I swear I'm about to make it up to you, Ethan.
"What about the blood all over the rest of him? There," asked Sam, pointing, "And there, and there?"
"That's just . . ." Madison started, and trailed off. Oh no, oh, that is bad. All of Ethan's lacerations – the major ones on his right wrist that she'd so carefully bandaged before, plus the minor ones on his left arm and knees that she hadn't bothered with, had torn back open, wider and deeper, presumably during their run from the police. She hadn't noticed the fresh blood because he already looked so beaten up, and he probably hadn't noticed the pain because he already was so beaten up. The whole time they'd been running, he'd been slowly bleeding out of numerous small wounds, the death of a thousand cuts. If he hadn't already been weakened from his injuries, it mightn't have mattered much – but, of course, he was. Oh, crap. The old and fresh blood stood out starkly, dark and bright, against his pale skin. Come on, girl, stop staring and do something about it. Madison ripped off his shoes. "You just have band-aids?"
Sam was practically stomping his foot with anger: "This is not a fucking field hospital, Mad, I don't have the resources and you're not doing this here."
"Where's the nearest drugstore?" She was starting to ease off Ethan's pants; he genuinely was so drenched with sweat and rain that she was having to wrestle with them a little, and she could feel that some of the blood had begun to glue them to his knees.
"It's across the street, damn you, you even passed it on the way in."
"I'll be right back," said Madison, "Put ice on his hand, and anything that's bleeding." She'd finally gotten Ethan's pants down and off, wincing at what looked like gravel embedded in his oozing knees and shins.
"Madison Paige finally comes over, and she dumps on me some fucked-up bleeding-to-death asshole. What if he wakes up?" Sam was in her face now, glaring at her almost eye-to-eye – he was not a tall man. Mentally daring him to stop her, Madison sidled past him and was already pretending to be completely engrossed in opening the chain on his apartment door when he yelled, "Fuck you! I'm not letting you back in!" She flew out into the hallway and down the stairs, giving the elevator a miss. So tired, she thought, but not having to carry Ethan is better than Christmas right now.
Sam won't throw him out. Or call the cops. Or even an ambulance. I asked him not to, and he's my friend, and too much of a basically decent guy. And much more curious than he's pretending to be.
And he's damn good at his job, too, Madison added to herself as she ran across the street. Now that she was looking for it, she didn't know how she'd missed seeing the drugstore in the first place. Don't forget how incredibly lucky you were to meet him, Miss Madison Paige, and how lucky you'll be if he ever forgives you for this. Incredible, this place has everything I need. Bandages, cotton balls, scissors, stuff to clean the cuts with, athletic tape, analgesics, I'll even get Sam a bag of ice. He is going to be pissed off about that ice. And why not, lunch for everyone. She hesitated over using her credit card, settled up with cash, just in case, and took off at top speed back to their new hidey-hole. She once again ignored the street door entirely, but when she got to the third floor she found, to her surprise, that Sam's door was unlocked.
He was sitting on a chair he'd moved next to the sofa, peering down at Ethan – who appeared, she noticed abstractedly, to be covered in plastic. When Sam heard her enter, he turned his face towards her, his eyes bright, his head cocked, birdlike.
"Oh, Mad," he said. "I could kiss you, I really could." Confused, she held out the bag of ice, which he ignored, going on: "I know you always say you'll owe me, but I never thought you'd come through like this. Man, when I gave you that info, I had no idea – I mean, no idea! But you know that."
She was beginning to understand, though she didn't want to. "I need to – he's still – " She gestured towards Ethan, her hands full of plastic bags.
"Oh, yes, of course!" Sam sprang out of the chair he was occupying, offering it to her with an absentmindedly theatrical gesture. "Shit, the whole thing would be blown if the guy dies." He began to pace around the room, his rage clearly transformed into enthusiasm, as Madison took his seat. "Okay, let's see, we've got possession of Ethan Mars, Origami Killer. What's the plan? I'm sure you've worked something out, or you would've just called the cops. Are we going to wrestle an exclusive interview out of him first? Actually, hell, should he be tied up? I mean, I guess he's not going anywhere right now, but he should wake up eventually, right? I can't believe you wouldn't tell me on the phone when you called, but oh, hey, you're right, someone might have overheard you. I don't even know what I was thinking. How did you even get him here? I can't wait to hear it."
He went on, kicking into high gear, Madison's heart sinking as she listened. Of course, she scolded herself, you brought the most wanted man in the city to the apartment of a guy who spends all day gathering and distributing information. The guy who gave you the tip about the police scanner chatter last night. What did you think would happen? That he wouldn't recognize him? He's always plugged into about ten sources at once. She realized with a start that the reason Ethan looked so odd was that Sam had, apparently, filled multiple plastic sandwich baggies with ice cubes and dotted them haphazardly along the unconscious man's body, as well as packing one around the bleeding stump. God, how can a guy be so smart at so much and be so bad at other things? Like reading this situation?
"Actually, Mad," Sam was looking thoughtful now, "Can you give me a time extension? I want to go see if I can promise some deals. I mean, you'd have exclusive first, obviously, but I was thinking you do owe me, and maybe you could just take a few hours' head start, I could give some other people the heads up, and – "
"No, Sam, I don't – listen, just stop talking for a second," she said, exhaustion and anxiety turning her tone sharper than she meant it to, "I'm trying to help him! Let me help him!"
"Sure," said Sam absently, and Madison could tell that he was already gone, mentally working through his networks, oblivious to her larger meaning. "I'm just going to be in my study, writing up a few ideas." He scampered out of the room. Gee, great, thought Madison exasperatedly as she started to rebandage Ethan, don't help. I don't need any help here with the bleeding man, no sir.
Madison got to work on Ethan's much-abused body, unwrapping, cleaning, wrapping, picking the gravel out of his abrasions, taking special care with his hand and its web of blood, burns, and bruises. I never want to know how much of that I caused. It was harder to dress his injuries this time – not only was there more to do, but Ethan was totally nonresponsive, she was even more tired, and she had to lift him by herself because of Sam's vanishing act. Though lying down seemed to have let some color back into his face, he was covered with a sheen of sweat. She risked trying to get some pills and a sip or two of water into him from one of the bottles she'd bought, and somehow managed to do so without his choking, though he didn't appear to approach anything like consciousness. It's strange that the worse he gets, the more peaceful his face looks. At least he doesn't look like he's in pain when he's asleep. I hope he remembers almost nothing of this, I really do.
She guiltily began half-checking his fever, half-stroking his face, as she took her first real look around the apartment. This place has gotten even worse since the last time. Sam was an inveterate collector of all kinds of information, and the place was crammed with generations of media – from yellowing books to stacked spools of DVDs in the corner. She was pretty sure she'd identified which magazines had been hastily shoved off the sofa - mostly National Geographics and Playboys. She could even see the old familiar pile of reel-to-reel tapes in its usual corner, though it was partially obscured by a tangle of what looked like cell phone chargers and accessories. Practically all the flat surfaces she could see, and some of the vertical ones, were occupied by some sort of clutter. He really needs to get out more, she thought critically, and immediately realized she was in no position to judge. Maybe he would, if anyone ever asked him to.
She'd turned back to Ethan when she heard Sam's voice over her shoulder: "You just about done? Boy, you're right, I bet he sure did a number on my sofa. Soaked right through the sheet, even. I've got a short list of ways we can do this. You know Barry's been pretty desperate recently, right?" He'd come in behind her, and was rapidly tapping a mechanical pencil against a notebook in his hand.
"Sam, sit down for a minute so I can talk to you." Elbows on her knees, face in her hands, Madison had rarely ever wanted to do anything less.
"Shit, of course, I'm stepping on your toes. Sec." Sam moved enough books to clear a space for himself on another chair, facing her. "What do you want to do with this, Mad?"
Sleep. I want to sleep. She couldn't even think any more, she was reduced to basic truths: "I want to wait for him to wake up, and then I want to get him out of here, and then I want to help him find his son."
There was a short pause. Madison didn't look up, but she could feel Sam staring at her.
"Wow," he finally laughed. "All right, but what are we going to do?"
It took her a long time to get it all out. "Just that, Sam. Listen. He's innocent. I think he's innocent. I know his son is missing, and he's going through hell. I think he's trying to find him. The cops are after him. I don't know exactly what's going on, but I think that if they find him, it'll only make things worse. I want to protect him from them, and from . . . I don't know, whatever else he's going through. I know what you want to say, but I really do. This needs to be a secret. I mean it. You can't tell anyone. At all. I wouldn't . . ." No, girl, don't shouldn't say it, you know you'll regret it, but then she went ahead and said it anyway: "I wouldn't even have told you if I didn't have to."
The silence that hung between them was palpably ugly. "Well, shit," he finally said.
"I'm sorry, Sam, I really want to do this. I really need to do this."
"So. You actually just needed a really huge favor, just like you said. Just thought you'd bring this guy here, implicate me in his crimes, maybe send the cops to my door, without giving me a chance to say yes or no. Without telling me anything first." The familiar pitch of anger was back in his voice.
She nodded at the floor, not sure if she was hurting him or herself more with her admission. "Yeah, that's about right."
"I could be looking at aiding and abetting, here, dammit. And you just sort of assumed you could slip him by me? Have I ever given you occasion to think I'm that bad at my job? When he's on my couch and I'm the guy that gave you the fucking information? Do you know when the media got to release that? Half an hour ago, Madison!"
"No, Sam, I just . . ."
"You just ended up at 40th and Ball? Couldn't think of any other old friends you could screw with? Thought you could always use old Sam, that loser you only sometimes remember to pay or throw a byline to?"
Her silence was apparently enough confirmation for him, and she actually flinched when he whipped his notebook at the wall. Still, when he finally spoke again, his tone had inexplicably softened.
"Have you got any proof of this theory, Mad? You're playing with fire, here."
"No, just . . . a feeling. But, you know, if you call anyone, do anything with this, I won't have the chance to find that proof, either way." She finally looked him in the eyes. He'd lost all the anger out of them, but also all the enthusiasm. Sam usually ran at about ninety miles an hour, but now he'd just disappeared, emotionally.
There was a pause, and then Sam started their old routine with a sad, barely-there smile that went no farther than the corners of his mouth: "You're nuts."
She managed a weary half-smile back: "That's why you love me."
"All right, Madison, if that's the way you want it," Sam said. He looked bewildered, rising to his feet. "I'm just gonna go think some things over." He shuffled out of the room, and Madison let him go. They'd always had a complicated connection – he was just about old enough to be her father, but their conversations sometimes wandered from business to friendship to somewhere between the paternal and the flirtatious. They'd always done good work together, and he was right, she did owe him much more than the occasional credit she let him take as her source. And now she'd pretty much just let it all be thrown to hell, over something she had trouble putting into words.
Madison sighed heavily and leant over Ethan to rest her head and shoulder against the sofa, checking his bandages again. I guess today's just my day for hurting guys I care about, she thought regretfully, and rubbed her face against the ugly paisley sheet to help her focus. Stop it, girl. You're being depressing. Nobody makes Madison Paige cry. After a while, her thoughts stopped making sense.
The next thing she knew, Sam was pulling roughly at her elbow. "C'mon. The guy looks like he's been through a blender, and you're crushing him to death."
She started groggily and realized he was right. She'd fallen asleep on the chair, leaning against the back of the sofa, and slowly slid down in her sleep until she was partially resting across Ethan's pelvis. At least I didn't have my elbow directly jabbed in his broken ribs, she groaned to herself, rubbing her eyes. She checked her phone; she'd probably only been asleep about half an hour.
"C'mon," Sam said again, curtly. "Bed." Madison nodded sleepily in response and followed him. His bedroom was just as much of a disaster as the living room, but he cleared a space for her in the nest of clothes that occupied his bed and walked wordlessly out. She curled up, just managing to kick off her shoes and set the alarm clock on her cell phone before she crashed again.
Two hours later, it was ringing, and she woke up hugging one of Sam's threadbare sweaters. She was still tired, but she was always tired these days. The important thing was that she wasn't completely exhausted. She made her way back into the living room, where, to her surprise, Sam was again sitting next to Ethan and looking down at him. At some point, Sam had draped Ethan's clothes across the radiator and thrown another grotesque sheet over him, this one plaid. She wondered warily what kind of a mood Sam had worked himself into by now.
"How is he?" she asked, still picking bits of sand out of her eyes.
Sam shrugged and vacated his seat. "I wouldn't know. Not dead, I guess." He watched as Madison sat down and briefly flipped the sheet up to see if Ethan had bled through his bandages. He hadn't, though a few showed light spots. She picked up the bottle of water she'd left by the sofa and chewed her lip thoughtfully.
"Sam, do you have a straw?" He disappeared wordlessly into the kitchen, emerging with what she'd asked for, in a fast food paper wrapper. He handed it to her and leaned back against the kitchen doorway, arms crossed. Guess he's still pissed, Madison thought ruefully, unwrapping the straw. I bet he has a whole drawer full of these. And napkins. And takeout chopsticks. She bent it, stuck it in the water bottle, and slipped the upper end in Ethan's mouth.
"Ethan," she urged, squeezing his shoulder again. "Ethan, can you drink this? Hey, Ethan, wake up." She hadn't held her hopes out for much of a response, but after a few repetitions of trying to rouse him and tightening her grip across his collarbone, his eyes opened halfway and he managed a few sips. "Hey, good. Keep going." Madison made the mistake of easing up the pressure on his shoulder, and quickly discovered that when she stopped the process, so did he, slipping back into full unconsciousness.
She repeated the motions, continually prodding Ethan into action and uncomfortably aware of Sam's eyes on her throughout. His stony silence made her uneasy. What if he decides he's had enough? What do we do? When the bottle of water was nearly empty, Ethan seemed to fall more deeply asleep, and she let him be. She pulled the straw out of the bottle and downed the rest of the water herself, feeling pinned down by Sam's gaze.
When he spoke, his voice was gentle: "You know, I don't know how bad he's fucked up, but I have some of those prescription painkillers I got back when I had my knee fixed, don't remember what they're called. I'm not supposed to have them any more, but you know how it is, you just never throw old pills away."
She looked up, surprised. There was a softness in his eyes now, which she read as, I understand. "Thanks, Sam, but I don't think so. I'm honestly not sure how much stuff he's taken today or when, including the booze he apparently had at some point. Probably not a good idea. But, really. Thanks. Thank you." In the look that passed between them, she thought he acknowledged that she was thanking him for much more. I wish I knew what he just saw between Ethan and me while I was doing that, so I could explain it to myself.
"Nah, it makes sense. You know, I put those sandwiches you bought in the fridge. Want one?"
"Oh, god, thanks, Sam. I'd forgotten all about them."
"I guessed," he smiled, pointing at a large wet stain on the carpet with his foot, the spot where she'd dropped the bag of ice over two hours ago, as well as the several small ice bags she'd pulled off Ethan. She groaned aloud. "Don't worry about it, Mad, it's just water. I'll go liberate you a sandwich to spare you the contents of my fridge." He straightened and left the room.
She returned to inspecting Ethan. More bruises had had time to show themselves along his joints and ribs, so he looked disastrous. But he was cooler, and when she felt at his throat, his pulse seemed to be running at a more reasonable pace. She wished she had a way to check his blood pressure, which must have been dangerously low before. If I had any actual medical training, she thought with another flash of guilt, I'd probably know how to do it. He was still pretty filthy, but she couldn't think of a good way to wash him down without getting the bandages wet. Anyway, I should probably let him keep sleeping.
Sam returned with turkey on wheat, some chips, and another bottle of water, which she accepted gratefully. While she tore into the food, he said cautiously, "So I was also thinking, Mad – there's still a story in this, isn't there?"
She took a long look at him, chewing. "Yeah," she finally said. "Yes, I'm pretty sure there is. No matter what happens, probably."
"I want in," he immediately responded. "You need anything – anything at all, I'm the guy you come to. Not fuckin' . . . Randy or something, with his stupid Bluetooth. Or Iris the Virus and all her little hooker friends. Or, or that weird little snitch I know you go to on the north side, the guy with the really weird teeth who you said looks like a date rapist."
She was already laughing; she couldn't help it, and she also already knew she had to say yes.
"Not," he continued, grinning himself now, "the one guy at the police station who'll actually talk to you because you let him check out your boobs – "
"I do not!" she responded in mock outrage, mouth half-full. She swallowed, and continued with rising hilarity, "He's just so fucking short he has nowhere else to look!"
They were both laughing like lunatics now, and Madison felt like the sun had risen inside her body. Oh thank god, it's fixed. We're okay now. I didn't completely screw up at least one thing today. If I can fix this, maybe I can fix what I've done to Ethan. Aloud, she said, "Of course, Sam. You're my true sleazy scumbag love."
"And when you write your first book, I get the dedication page."
"Don't push it, mister. But if it sells well enough, I will buy you a sofa that doesn't look like you picked it up from Leland White's yard sale!"
"God," he said, wiping his nose. "And I didn't think I was ever going to forgive you for that one. Not even charging your damn phone before wandering into that psycho's house."
She rolled her eyes and stood, wiping crumbs from her hands. "And I'm not dumb enough to think you're ever going to let me forget it. You know, I may have to do a little bit of my own investigative reporting while I'm doing this."
"I know, Mad. Just let me take first crack at giving you a hand."
"I've got to run out for a while, Sam."
He looked startled, gesturing towards Ethan. "What, and leave him here?"
"Got to. We need some transportation." She picked Ethan's pants off the radiator and rummaged through the pockets. Keys. Bingo. Ethan's car is almost certainly gone by now, but it won't hurt to bring them. Huh, he's still got a cell phone in here. She felt her fingers close over another of the origami figures she'd seen in Ethan's room at the hotel, and tried to thrust it from her mind. He's innocent, I know he is. She turned her attention back to Sam: "You still don't drive, right?"
He shook his head regretfully. "Don't even have a valid license any more. They can track you that way, you know."
"Not as well as you know it. Heck, you are 'they.'" She headed for the door, a plan forming.
"Wait, what do I do if he wakes up?" he asked for the second time that day, looking alarmed.
She shrugged. "I don't think he will, but just make him drink something and don't let him leave. Tell him I'm on my way back. Sit on him if you have to." And with that, she was out the door, flying again. This is going to be okay. There is a solution to this. This can be fixed.
